Encounterlogs
Brians Odd Encounter Sr Justin 240924
Brian, amidst a night reserved for mundane bass practice and the tranquility of his cozy bedroom, finds himself entangled in an urgent mission dispatched from the Templar headquarters. The task: to hunt down Seymour Adams, a high-value target with the supernatural ability to shapeshift into a swarm of sewer rats, recently poisoned and fled to the sewers under Haven's Old Quarter. Gearing up with his vest, sword, rifle, and essentials, Brian ventures into the night, determined to confront the criminal lurking in the depths of the town’s aged infrastructures. His descent into the sewers is met with the eerie assistance of local rats and the distant, ominous tolling of the town hall clock, leading him to Seymour, weakened and surrounded by an improvised court of vermin.
In a dramatic confrontation illuminated by the faint glow of Brian’s flashlight, Seymour attempts an ill-fated defiance, summoning his rat allies in a desperate attack. Brian, however, stands his ground, offering Seymour a choice between violent resistance and peaceful surrender. Intelligence and exhaustion battling within, Seymour collapses into human form, accepting defeat and Brian's offer of first aid and a chance at redemption. Following a tense standoff, Brian secures Seymour with flex-cuffs, deftly administers first aid, and negotiates his surrender under the cold gaze of approaching New York Templar agents. With a mix of relief and apprehension, Brian watches as Seymour is taken into custody, his actions sparing Haven from a potentially disastrous supernatural contagion and ending his odd encounter with a mix of success and the sobering reality of his lone fight against the shadows.
(Brian's odd encounter(SRJustin):SRJustin)
[Mon Sep 23 2024]
In a cozy bedroom
This small but comfortably appointed room has a lot of open space, giving it the feel of being bigger than it really is. Three of the walls are painted an off-white, about the color of an eggshell, while the fourth serves as an accent wall in sage green. Soft lighting is provided by a small desk lamp, with the ceiling light usually turned off.
It is night, about 68F(20C) degrees, There is a last quarter moon.
(Your target and their allies are charged with tracking down a supernatural criminal on the run from the factions, what they do with them then is up to the players to decide.
)
Brian is bored. Having missed the beginning of an op, and being all caught up on schoolwork and mid-terms, and with his shift at the Black Rose over for the day, he decides to put in some time practicing scales on his bass.
Dutiful arpeggios in the bass clef from Brian's practice is interrupted by the steady *vrruuumm* of the man's smartphone on the side. The insignia that dawns on the caller ID matches the stylized sun of the Temple. An official dispatch from headquarters? Or, a neighboring branch? The Templar's dispatch vibrates and buzzes its way along the surface of the table, beckoning for Brian to reach out and read it. On its display, a troublesome report: a criminal has taken refuge in Haven, chased in from the bounds of Sanctuary. And time is of the essence, before the town's mystical protection settles upon them properly.
Brian sets his guitar back on the stand and picks up his phone, looking over the message for any additional details on the mission, including any description of who he's looking for, and what they're wanted for, along with any known associates in the area, and any known supernatural abilities.
The dossier that is shared along the secured communications line paints a portrait of a skeevy, sickly looking man, with bulging eyes, and baldness creeping over his greasy scalp. Name: Seymour Adams; and he's a high value target for the New York City Temple, what with his supernatural ability to shapeshift into a swarm of sewer rats. The dispatch details that a key application of poison down a Broadway sewer grate managed to poison and kill a majority of Seymour's swarm. He's coalesced and fled to Haven to recover, likely, in the familiar territory of the brick-and-mortar sewers underneath the town's Old Quarter. No known allies or associates active in the area.
"Priority Op received from HQ on an HVT out of New York. I am going to go hunting in the sewers under the Old Quarter. Apparently this guy's a sewer rat, in more ways than one." Brian says into his mic. He's not expecting immediate assistance in the middle of an op, so he packs his vest, sword, and rifle into his backpack, and slings it over one shoulder. Checking his flashlight and concealed piece are in his pocket, along with his pepper spray and his multi-tool, he sets out. Down the elevator, to the parking lot, and into his van for the drive to the nearest manhole in the Old Quarter.
A trip to Haven's older architecture on the southern side of the bay is uneventful, with car lights passing by in the glare of Brian's windscreen. As for access routes to manholes, they're easier to spot now that the weather is cooling down at the late end of September; the shimmer of steam coalesces around their openings, not unlike the tendrils of fog that creep out from the forest surrounding the misty town. Brian would find one manhole conspicuously open: the one hidden behind the gas station, in the alley, near the overgrown weeds of the baseball field's warning track. A ladder descends deep into the secrets best forgotten of the old Haven architecture.
Brian gears up. First, the vest goes over his head, the velcro straps being adjusted to properly fit it to his frame. Then, the leather strap of the sword sheath goes over his armor, so that the hilt sticks up over his right shoulder. The rifle stays in his hands, after he attaches his LED flaslight to the underbarrel module and turns it on. He ejects the clip in his rifle, checking to make sure it's full, then slaps it back in place and pulls the chargning handle. He checks to make sure the weapon is still on safe, then holds it in one hand as he uses the other hand and both feet to descend the ladder into the sewers. Head on a swivel, he looks for any sign, other than the open manhole, that his target has been in the area.
After the gear check, a full magazine -- and one in the chamber -- is a solid piece of comfort for Brian as he prepares to descend into the hunt through the sewers for the fugitive rat. Before the descent, a final dispatch from the neighboring Temple cell gives a recommended rules of engagement: alive if possible, but dead if necessary. The rust-corroded ladder supports Brian's descent into the stone sewers -- surprisingly clean, if the nostrils are to be trusted. It must be that Haven's recent flood washed away most of the detritus that normally lingers in such a space. A small stream of grey water is flanked by two cobblestone pathways, curving around through the ground in smooth curves. The wind's howl of a draft cuts down the sewer cavern, giving Brian a chill, even underground. Rats scurry by underfoot -- hesitant to spend any time illuminated by the light on Brian's rifle. They head east, towards where the Town Hall would stand far overhead.
"Thank Cthulhu for small favors." Brian murmurs to himself when he sees, and smells, the condition of the sewer. He follows the rats, moving at a reasonable pace and keeping watch for any surprises, because he knows this is time sensitive. The light stays low, sweeping back and forth in front of him, no more than twenty or so feet out. Every so often, he stops to listen for anything that might sound out of the ordinary, but otherwise allows the rats to be his guides.
As for keeping his ears open -- Brian would hear, or even feel, the deep and distant -thrums- of the eleven strikes of the clocktower's bell, reverberating down into this bunker of a tunnel. Following the strike of the chimes and the scurrying tails of the fleeing rats, the next stop on Brian's careful clearance of the tunnel reveals a new sound: that of wheezing, of difficult breathing. A peek around the crumbled mortar of a new tunnel finds a sore sight -- a human, or recognizable as such, clad in the filth and blood stains of an expensive suit that was riddled with gunfire. He lies in a broken clump underneath the moonlight of a drainage vent overhead, where the wheels of the cars passing by eddy and fade. This could only be Seymour, judging by his ghastly profile matching the photograph that graced Brian's phone. The fugitive's lips are pallid and green: his eyes, hollow, and delirious. He's been heavily poisoned. ... All around Seymour, gather the sewer's hive of vermin: rats of a different type than him, but no less curious. They squeak and chitter, as if to alert Seymour to Brian's presence just around the corner.
Brian pops the flashlight off the mount and slings the rifle to low-ready. He pulls the canister of pepper spray out of his pocket, and steps around the corner, immediately shining the light into Seymour's eyes, and stepping forward quickly. "Hands where I can see them, and other than that, don't move!" he says, in his best commanding tone of voice. "Seymore Adams, I will need to detain you for transport back to New York City. I will make sure that your injuries are attended to, and we can see about getting you some food and drink if you like, but you are not free to go. Is that clear?" He has the pepper spray ready for the man, or for the rats, if it comes to that.
Seymour's face turns, his vacant eyes alighting on Brian when the Templar reveals his presence; however, there is little reflection of human understanding, or consciousness, in the delirium of the poisoned fugitive's features. A wheeze escapes from his green lips, an ill, lung-scratching sound, like a dusty bellows. His sunken eyes gauge the distance between himself and Brian, and, in a croak of a voice, he speaks: "I'm not going back. You... You can't take me back." His head rests against the brick-and-mortar of the sewer wall, propped up to face his fate in the spotlight of the Templar's commands.
But rats are intelligent and sensitive creatures. After witnessing the stand-off from Brian's orders, the vermin gather together and squeak amongst one another-- the splash and scurry of little rodent footsteps in the darkness behind Brian, as other vermin flank his blind spot. Then, pursing his lips, Seymour starts the chorus of the rodent attack with an urgent, *Squeak, squeak squeak squeak!* The water-logged rats of Haven's sewers follow the big rat's direction, and they swarm towards Brian, fangs barred and eyes burning in the low reflection of the Templar's flashlight.
Brian immediately opens up with the pepper spray, shooting a jet into Seymour's face, then spraying it down and across as many of the rats as he can, as he backs away. He's hoping it won't come to needing his sword, but if the rats don't stop, he will. "Dammit. I could have shot you as soon as I came around that corner, but instead I'm trying to handle this as peacefully as I can!" he yells.
An intense spray of capsaicin riddles the arriving wave of rodents, breaking most of the impact to flow and bite around Brian's ankles and shoes. Seymour struggles to move in the haze of his poison spell, crawling on his hands and knees down the sewer pipe away from the rodents defending his retreat. Looking up, Brian can see the horror of the supernatural shapeshifter's process: Seymour's aura clouds and darkens, and he crumples into a haze, abstract ball of fierce furs and bony tails. Soon, a swarm of poisoned rats stumbles and struggles to scurry down the pipe, fleeing the long arm of the Templar's justice that cornered him in Haven.
"If you can still understand me, stop! I will shoot if I have to, but I would rather take you in alive, Seymour. Please, let me do that!" Brian yells as he jumps over the rats he sprayed and runs after the Seymour-swarm. Brian is a fairly fast runner, so if he gets close enough, he'll pepper spray the swarm to try to get them to stop. He doesn't have a naturalizer, or he'd use that.
The wounded fleeing of the Seymour-Swarm causes some of the pathetic poisoned rats to collapse from the swarm, curling and suffering in the throes of the vicious poison that still plagues his system. Brian must be careful in his pursuit where he steps, lest he crushes a part of Seymour underneath his traveling heels. The fugitive's luck runs out, as the draining sluice that he fled down terminates in a dead end -- the heavy clog of freshly cut grass from Arkwright Cemetery stamping shut the drain, and filling the sewer with the dusky scent of biotic rot. Backed into a corner, the remnants of the swarm turn to try and train upon Brian. A damning, evil intelligence shines in their coordination -- a betrayal of the natural order, a eusocial glob of beasts-in-one. They fall deathly silent, eerie in the shadows cast by Brian's flashlight.
Brian stops, keeping his flashlight trained on the rats. "You have nowhere to go, except through me. I want to bring you in alive, without anymore pain. We can have your wounds tended to, and we can probably help with that poison." He pauses, his expression becoming a sort of grim resolve as he continues, "Or we can do this the hard way. Apart from the pepper spray, I've got bullets and a big sword. If I shoot or stab even just a few rats, what pieces will you be missing when you become human again? You make the call, Seymour."
For a haunting moment, the chorus of rats considers Brian's ultimatum. Intelligence shines in their eyes, however clouded they are by the poison roiling in their bodies. Then, in a slump of fur and flesh, Seymour congeals again in the blur of his aura shifting -- the bloodied clothes wrapping back around him in the powers of his shapeshifting. "Do... Do what thou wilt," so says Seymour, as the fight leaves his crumpled body. It turns out that the fugitive is cowed when at the mercy of a Templar's rifle.
There's a hatch leading up to the street level a few turns back in the maze of the sewer tunnels. It's up to Brian to deal with Seymour, however he decides.
Brian produces a pair of flex-cuffs from his pack. "I'd rather not use these, if you'll just agree to walk with me. Can you do that? Before we go, I'll see what I can do about the worst of those wounds of yours. But if you try anything, it's not going to end well."
The exhaustion of his desperate bid for escape sapped most of the energy from Seymour; but Brian's competent first-aid gives the fugitive a second wind to struggle to stand up against the stones. The quick medical once-over from Brian finds the tell-tale wounds of a gunfight, with entrance and exit wounds puncturing through Seymour's suit in ways that would condemn someone with natural biology. "Buddy..." Seymour croaks at Brian, in the slimy scuff of a New York brogue: "Nothin' about this is going to end well." Nevertheless, he slumps and staggers forward, Brian's cooperative prisoner in the supernatural war. "You put in a good word for me. Maybe I'll keep my neck." In time, Brian and Seymour break the surface and find themselves back on the dark streets of Haven. The cold thread of the contact from the neighboring Temple cell still lingers on Brian's phone.
"I'll tell them you agreed to cooperate. Hopefully that'll buy some goodwill." Brian says to Seymour, and he means it. He will emphasize that the man didn't run much, or fight much, and listened to reason. He calls the number of the other cell's contact. When they answer, he says, "It's Miller from Haven. I've got Seymour. Do you want to pick him up, or should I deliver him?"
On the other side of the line, the New York Templar responds curtly: "We'll pick him up. We're coming to you now. Stay under a street lamp." Time passes, as the last of the Summer's crickets chirp in the chill of the midnight air. Seymour doubles over, hands on his knees, his dry retching a hollow announcement to the misty street. Any locals out and about at this hour know better than to come and inquire as to the sight of Brian and Seymour.
Then, speeding down the road, a white van slams on the brakes as it pulls over and jumps the curb to halt nearby Brian. A pair of kitted-up Intelligence Agents bail out of the back, both carrying a syringe. Before Seymour can even register their presence through the haze of his poison, he's been stabbed by both needles; and crumples. Content with the attack, the Intel Agent turns to Brian and smiles: the bags under her eyes betray her exhaustion. "One to knock him out," she reports. "And the other to handle the poison. How was it?" She only has a few moments to gather Brian's version of events: Brian would know that, especially, out-of-town Templars and their red auras are prime targets for Haven's local coteries.
Brian says, "Easy. He came easy. He tried to run, but I talked him down, and he came willingly after that. Go easy on him, okay? He doesn't seem like a bad guy. Could even make a Demolisher."
The Intel duo haul the snoozing Seymour into the back of the van, and one buckles him down while the other bobs her head to Brian. "After what he's done, he's got a lot to make up for." The door slams shut, and the driver steps on the gas; and after wheeling around on the road, the van darts back to the highway, back to the 'safety' of the highway out of Haven. Seymour didn't linger long enough for Sanctuary to take hold on him, so Brian's quick action helped the neighboring Temple cell pluck a rat problem from infesting Haven. And the night quietens -- at least, in this part of the town.
In a dramatic confrontation illuminated by the faint glow of Brian’s flashlight, Seymour attempts an ill-fated defiance, summoning his rat allies in a desperate attack. Brian, however, stands his ground, offering Seymour a choice between violent resistance and peaceful surrender. Intelligence and exhaustion battling within, Seymour collapses into human form, accepting defeat and Brian's offer of first aid and a chance at redemption. Following a tense standoff, Brian secures Seymour with flex-cuffs, deftly administers first aid, and negotiates his surrender under the cold gaze of approaching New York Templar agents. With a mix of relief and apprehension, Brian watches as Seymour is taken into custody, his actions sparing Haven from a potentially disastrous supernatural contagion and ending his odd encounter with a mix of success and the sobering reality of his lone fight against the shadows.
(Brian's odd encounter(SRJustin):SRJustin)
[Mon Sep 23 2024]
In a cozy bedroom
This small but comfortably appointed room has a lot of open space, giving it the feel of being bigger than it really is. Three of the walls are painted an off-white, about the color of an eggshell, while the fourth serves as an accent wall in sage green. Soft lighting is provided by a small desk lamp, with the ceiling light usually turned off.
It is night, about 68F(20C) degrees, There is a last quarter moon.
(Your target and their allies are charged with tracking down a supernatural criminal on the run from the factions, what they do with them then is up to the players to decide.
)
Brian is bored. Having missed the beginning of an op, and being all caught up on schoolwork and mid-terms, and with his shift at the Black Rose over for the day, he decides to put in some time practicing scales on his bass.
Dutiful arpeggios in the bass clef from Brian's practice is interrupted by the steady *vrruuumm* of the man's smartphone on the side. The insignia that dawns on the caller ID matches the stylized sun of the Temple. An official dispatch from headquarters? Or, a neighboring branch? The Templar's dispatch vibrates and buzzes its way along the surface of the table, beckoning for Brian to reach out and read it. On its display, a troublesome report: a criminal has taken refuge in Haven, chased in from the bounds of Sanctuary. And time is of the essence, before the town's mystical protection settles upon them properly.
Brian sets his guitar back on the stand and picks up his phone, looking over the message for any additional details on the mission, including any description of who he's looking for, and what they're wanted for, along with any known associates in the area, and any known supernatural abilities.
The dossier that is shared along the secured communications line paints a portrait of a skeevy, sickly looking man, with bulging eyes, and baldness creeping over his greasy scalp. Name: Seymour Adams; and he's a high value target for the New York City Temple, what with his supernatural ability to shapeshift into a swarm of sewer rats. The dispatch details that a key application of poison down a Broadway sewer grate managed to poison and kill a majority of Seymour's swarm. He's coalesced and fled to Haven to recover, likely, in the familiar territory of the brick-and-mortar sewers underneath the town's Old Quarter. No known allies or associates active in the area.
"Priority Op received from HQ on an HVT out of New York. I am going to go hunting in the sewers under the Old Quarter. Apparently this guy's a sewer rat, in more ways than one." Brian says into his mic. He's not expecting immediate assistance in the middle of an op, so he packs his vest, sword, and rifle into his backpack, and slings it over one shoulder. Checking his flashlight and concealed piece are in his pocket, along with his pepper spray and his multi-tool, he sets out. Down the elevator, to the parking lot, and into his van for the drive to the nearest manhole in the Old Quarter.
A trip to Haven's older architecture on the southern side of the bay is uneventful, with car lights passing by in the glare of Brian's windscreen. As for access routes to manholes, they're easier to spot now that the weather is cooling down at the late end of September; the shimmer of steam coalesces around their openings, not unlike the tendrils of fog that creep out from the forest surrounding the misty town. Brian would find one manhole conspicuously open: the one hidden behind the gas station, in the alley, near the overgrown weeds of the baseball field's warning track. A ladder descends deep into the secrets best forgotten of the old Haven architecture.
Brian gears up. First, the vest goes over his head, the velcro straps being adjusted to properly fit it to his frame. Then, the leather strap of the sword sheath goes over his armor, so that the hilt sticks up over his right shoulder. The rifle stays in his hands, after he attaches his LED flaslight to the underbarrel module and turns it on. He ejects the clip in his rifle, checking to make sure it's full, then slaps it back in place and pulls the chargning handle. He checks to make sure the weapon is still on safe, then holds it in one hand as he uses the other hand and both feet to descend the ladder into the sewers. Head on a swivel, he looks for any sign, other than the open manhole, that his target has been in the area.
After the gear check, a full magazine -- and one in the chamber -- is a solid piece of comfort for Brian as he prepares to descend into the hunt through the sewers for the fugitive rat. Before the descent, a final dispatch from the neighboring Temple cell gives a recommended rules of engagement: alive if possible, but dead if necessary. The rust-corroded ladder supports Brian's descent into the stone sewers -- surprisingly clean, if the nostrils are to be trusted. It must be that Haven's recent flood washed away most of the detritus that normally lingers in such a space. A small stream of grey water is flanked by two cobblestone pathways, curving around through the ground in smooth curves. The wind's howl of a draft cuts down the sewer cavern, giving Brian a chill, even underground. Rats scurry by underfoot -- hesitant to spend any time illuminated by the light on Brian's rifle. They head east, towards where the Town Hall would stand far overhead.
"Thank Cthulhu for small favors." Brian murmurs to himself when he sees, and smells, the condition of the sewer. He follows the rats, moving at a reasonable pace and keeping watch for any surprises, because he knows this is time sensitive. The light stays low, sweeping back and forth in front of him, no more than twenty or so feet out. Every so often, he stops to listen for anything that might sound out of the ordinary, but otherwise allows the rats to be his guides.
As for keeping his ears open -- Brian would hear, or even feel, the deep and distant -thrums- of the eleven strikes of the clocktower's bell, reverberating down into this bunker of a tunnel. Following the strike of the chimes and the scurrying tails of the fleeing rats, the next stop on Brian's careful clearance of the tunnel reveals a new sound: that of wheezing, of difficult breathing. A peek around the crumbled mortar of a new tunnel finds a sore sight -- a human, or recognizable as such, clad in the filth and blood stains of an expensive suit that was riddled with gunfire. He lies in a broken clump underneath the moonlight of a drainage vent overhead, where the wheels of the cars passing by eddy and fade. This could only be Seymour, judging by his ghastly profile matching the photograph that graced Brian's phone. The fugitive's lips are pallid and green: his eyes, hollow, and delirious. He's been heavily poisoned. ... All around Seymour, gather the sewer's hive of vermin: rats of a different type than him, but no less curious. They squeak and chitter, as if to alert Seymour to Brian's presence just around the corner.
Brian pops the flashlight off the mount and slings the rifle to low-ready. He pulls the canister of pepper spray out of his pocket, and steps around the corner, immediately shining the light into Seymour's eyes, and stepping forward quickly. "Hands where I can see them, and other than that, don't move!" he says, in his best commanding tone of voice. "Seymore Adams, I will need to detain you for transport back to New York City. I will make sure that your injuries are attended to, and we can see about getting you some food and drink if you like, but you are not free to go. Is that clear?" He has the pepper spray ready for the man, or for the rats, if it comes to that.
Seymour's face turns, his vacant eyes alighting on Brian when the Templar reveals his presence; however, there is little reflection of human understanding, or consciousness, in the delirium of the poisoned fugitive's features. A wheeze escapes from his green lips, an ill, lung-scratching sound, like a dusty bellows. His sunken eyes gauge the distance between himself and Brian, and, in a croak of a voice, he speaks: "I'm not going back. You... You can't take me back." His head rests against the brick-and-mortar of the sewer wall, propped up to face his fate in the spotlight of the Templar's commands.
But rats are intelligent and sensitive creatures. After witnessing the stand-off from Brian's orders, the vermin gather together and squeak amongst one another-- the splash and scurry of little rodent footsteps in the darkness behind Brian, as other vermin flank his blind spot. Then, pursing his lips, Seymour starts the chorus of the rodent attack with an urgent, *Squeak, squeak squeak squeak!* The water-logged rats of Haven's sewers follow the big rat's direction, and they swarm towards Brian, fangs barred and eyes burning in the low reflection of the Templar's flashlight.
Brian immediately opens up with the pepper spray, shooting a jet into Seymour's face, then spraying it down and across as many of the rats as he can, as he backs away. He's hoping it won't come to needing his sword, but if the rats don't stop, he will. "Dammit. I could have shot you as soon as I came around that corner, but instead I'm trying to handle this as peacefully as I can!" he yells.
An intense spray of capsaicin riddles the arriving wave of rodents, breaking most of the impact to flow and bite around Brian's ankles and shoes. Seymour struggles to move in the haze of his poison spell, crawling on his hands and knees down the sewer pipe away from the rodents defending his retreat. Looking up, Brian can see the horror of the supernatural shapeshifter's process: Seymour's aura clouds and darkens, and he crumples into a haze, abstract ball of fierce furs and bony tails. Soon, a swarm of poisoned rats stumbles and struggles to scurry down the pipe, fleeing the long arm of the Templar's justice that cornered him in Haven.
"If you can still understand me, stop! I will shoot if I have to, but I would rather take you in alive, Seymour. Please, let me do that!" Brian yells as he jumps over the rats he sprayed and runs after the Seymour-swarm. Brian is a fairly fast runner, so if he gets close enough, he'll pepper spray the swarm to try to get them to stop. He doesn't have a naturalizer, or he'd use that.
The wounded fleeing of the Seymour-Swarm causes some of the pathetic poisoned rats to collapse from the swarm, curling and suffering in the throes of the vicious poison that still plagues his system. Brian must be careful in his pursuit where he steps, lest he crushes a part of Seymour underneath his traveling heels. The fugitive's luck runs out, as the draining sluice that he fled down terminates in a dead end -- the heavy clog of freshly cut grass from Arkwright Cemetery stamping shut the drain, and filling the sewer with the dusky scent of biotic rot. Backed into a corner, the remnants of the swarm turn to try and train upon Brian. A damning, evil intelligence shines in their coordination -- a betrayal of the natural order, a eusocial glob of beasts-in-one. They fall deathly silent, eerie in the shadows cast by Brian's flashlight.
Brian stops, keeping his flashlight trained on the rats. "You have nowhere to go, except through me. I want to bring you in alive, without anymore pain. We can have your wounds tended to, and we can probably help with that poison." He pauses, his expression becoming a sort of grim resolve as he continues, "Or we can do this the hard way. Apart from the pepper spray, I've got bullets and a big sword. If I shoot or stab even just a few rats, what pieces will you be missing when you become human again? You make the call, Seymour."
For a haunting moment, the chorus of rats considers Brian's ultimatum. Intelligence shines in their eyes, however clouded they are by the poison roiling in their bodies. Then, in a slump of fur and flesh, Seymour congeals again in the blur of his aura shifting -- the bloodied clothes wrapping back around him in the powers of his shapeshifting. "Do... Do what thou wilt," so says Seymour, as the fight leaves his crumpled body. It turns out that the fugitive is cowed when at the mercy of a Templar's rifle.
There's a hatch leading up to the street level a few turns back in the maze of the sewer tunnels. It's up to Brian to deal with Seymour, however he decides.
Brian produces a pair of flex-cuffs from his pack. "I'd rather not use these, if you'll just agree to walk with me. Can you do that? Before we go, I'll see what I can do about the worst of those wounds of yours. But if you try anything, it's not going to end well."
The exhaustion of his desperate bid for escape sapped most of the energy from Seymour; but Brian's competent first-aid gives the fugitive a second wind to struggle to stand up against the stones. The quick medical once-over from Brian finds the tell-tale wounds of a gunfight, with entrance and exit wounds puncturing through Seymour's suit in ways that would condemn someone with natural biology. "Buddy..." Seymour croaks at Brian, in the slimy scuff of a New York brogue: "Nothin' about this is going to end well." Nevertheless, he slumps and staggers forward, Brian's cooperative prisoner in the supernatural war. "You put in a good word for me. Maybe I'll keep my neck." In time, Brian and Seymour break the surface and find themselves back on the dark streets of Haven. The cold thread of the contact from the neighboring Temple cell still lingers on Brian's phone.
"I'll tell them you agreed to cooperate. Hopefully that'll buy some goodwill." Brian says to Seymour, and he means it. He will emphasize that the man didn't run much, or fight much, and listened to reason. He calls the number of the other cell's contact. When they answer, he says, "It's Miller from Haven. I've got Seymour. Do you want to pick him up, or should I deliver him?"
On the other side of the line, the New York Templar responds curtly: "We'll pick him up. We're coming to you now. Stay under a street lamp." Time passes, as the last of the Summer's crickets chirp in the chill of the midnight air. Seymour doubles over, hands on his knees, his dry retching a hollow announcement to the misty street. Any locals out and about at this hour know better than to come and inquire as to the sight of Brian and Seymour.
Then, speeding down the road, a white van slams on the brakes as it pulls over and jumps the curb to halt nearby Brian. A pair of kitted-up Intelligence Agents bail out of the back, both carrying a syringe. Before Seymour can even register their presence through the haze of his poison, he's been stabbed by both needles; and crumples. Content with the attack, the Intel Agent turns to Brian and smiles: the bags under her eyes betray her exhaustion. "One to knock him out," she reports. "And the other to handle the poison. How was it?" She only has a few moments to gather Brian's version of events: Brian would know that, especially, out-of-town Templars and their red auras are prime targets for Haven's local coteries.
Brian says, "Easy. He came easy. He tried to run, but I talked him down, and he came willingly after that. Go easy on him, okay? He doesn't seem like a bad guy. Could even make a Demolisher."
The Intel duo haul the snoozing Seymour into the back of the van, and one buckles him down while the other bobs her head to Brian. "After what he's done, he's got a lot to make up for." The door slams shut, and the driver steps on the gas; and after wheeling around on the road, the van darts back to the highway, back to the 'safety' of the highway out of Haven. Seymour didn't linger long enough for Sanctuary to take hold on him, so Brian's quick action helped the neighboring Temple cell pluck a rat problem from infesting Haven. And the night quietens -- at least, in this part of the town.